But how much love, good Lord, how much love I used to experience in those dreams of mine, during those hours of “salvation through the sublime and the beautiful”; fantastic though that sort of love was and though in reality it had no relation whatever to anything human, there was so much of it, so much of this love, that one did not feel the need of applying it in practice afterwards; that would indeed have been a superfluous luxury. Everything, however, always ended most satisfactorily in an indolent and rapturous transition to art, that is, to the beautiful forms of existence, all ready-made, snatched forcibly from the poets and novelists and adapted to every possible need and requirement. For instance, I triumphed over everything; all of course lay in the dust at my feet, compelled of their own free will to acknowledge all my perfections, and I forgave them all. I was a famous poet and court chamberlain, and I fell in love; I became a multi-millionaire and at once devoted all my wealth to the improvement of the human race, and there and then confessed all my hideous and shameful crimes before all the people; needless to say, my crimes were, of course, not really hideous or shameful, but had much in them that was “sublime and beautiful,” something in the style of Manfred. All would weep and kiss me (what damned fools they’d have been otherwise!), and I’d go off, barefoot and hungry, to preach new ideas and inflict another Waterloo on the reactionaries. Then the band would be brought out and strike up a march, a general amnesty would be granted, and the Pope would agree to leave Rome for Brazil; then there would be a ball for the whole of Italy at the Villa Borghese on the banks of Lake Como, Lake Como being specially transferred for that occasion to the neighbourhood of Rome; this would be followed by the scene in the bushes, and so on and so forth—don’t tell me you don’t know it! You will say it is mean and contemptible now to shout it all from the housetops after all the raptures and tears which I have myself confessed to. But why, pray, is it mean? Surely, you don’t think I’m ashamed of it, do you? You don’t imagine by any chance that all this was much sillier than what ever happened in your life, gentlemen? And let me assure you that certain things were not so badly worked out by me, either.… It did not all take place on the banks of Lake Como. Of course, on the other hand, you are quite right. As a matter of fact, it is mean and contemptible. And what is even meaner is that now I should be trying to justify myself to you. Enough of this, though, or I should never finish: things are quite sure to get meaner and meaner anyway.
I was never able to spend more than three months of dreaming at a time without feeling an irresistible urge to plunge into social life. To me plunging into social life meant paying a call on the head of my department, Anton Antonovich Setochkin. He was the only permanent acquaintance I have had in my life, and I can’t help being surprised at it myself now. But I used to call on him only when I was in the right mood for such a visit, when, that is, my dreams had reached such a pinnacle of bliss that I felt an instant and irresistible urge to embrace all my fellow-men and all humanity. But to do that one had at least to have one man who actually existed. However, it was only on Tuesdays that one could call on Anton Antonovich (Tuesday was his at home day), and therefore it was necessary to work myself up into the right mood for embracing all mankind on that day. This Anton Antonovich Setochkin lived at Five Corners, on the fourth floor, in four little rooms with low ceilings, one smaller than the other, and all of a most frugal and jaundiced appearance. He had two daughters and their aunt who used to pour out the tea. One of the daughters was thirteen and the other fourteen; both had snub noses and both used to embarrass me terribly because they kept whispering to each other and giggling. The master of the house was usually in his study. He sat on a leather sofa in front of his desk, with some grey-haired visitor, a civil servant from our department or, occasionally, from some other department. I never saw more than two or three visitors there, and always the same. The usual topic of conversation was excise duties, the hard bargaining in the Senate, salaries, promotions, His Excellency, the best way to please him, etc., etc. I had the patience to sit like a damn fool beside these people for hours, listening to them, neither daring to speak to them, nor knowing what to say. I got more and more bored, broke out into a sweat, and was in danger of getting an apoplectic stroke. But all this was good and useful to me. When I came home, I would put off for a time my desire to embrace all mankind.
I had, by the way, another acquaintance of a sort, a fellow by the name of Simonov, an old schoolfellow of mine. I suppose I must have had quite a lot of schoolfellows in Petersburg, but I had nothing to do with them and even stopped exchanging greetings with them in the street. I expect the real reason why I had got myself transferred to another department in the Civil Service was that I did not want to have anything to do with them any more. I wanted to cut myself off completely from the hateful years of my childhood. To hell with that school and those terrible years of slavery! In short, I broke with my schoolfellows as soon as I began to shift for myself. There were only two or three of them left with whom I still exchanged greetings in the street. One of them was Simonov, who was a very quiet boy at school, of an equable nature and not particularly brilliant, but I discerned in him a certain independence of character and even honesty. I don’t think he was a dull fellow at all. Not very dull, anyway. We had had some bright times together, but I’m afraid they did not last long and somehow or other got lost in a mist rather suddenly. I had a feeling that he did not exactly relish being reminded of those times and that he seemed to be always afraid that I might adopt the same tone with him again. I suspected that he really loathed the sight of me, but as I was never quite sure about it, I went on visiting him.
So that one Thursday afternoon, unable to bear my solitude any longer and knowing that on Thursdays Anton Antonovich’s door would be closed, I thought of Simonov. As I was climbing up to his rooms on the fourth floor, I could not help thinking that this particular gentleman must be sick and tired of me and that I was wasting my time going to see him. But as it invariably happened that such reflections merely spurred me on to put myself into an equivocal position, I went in. It was almost a year since I had last seen Simonov.
III
I found two more of my former schoolfellows with him. They seemed to be discussing some highly important matter. None of them took any particular notice of my arrival, which struck me as rather odd considering that I had not seen them for years. No doubt they regarded me as some sort of common fly. I had never been treated like that even at school, though they all hated me there. I realised, of course, that they could not help despising me now for my failure to get on in the Civil Service, for my having sunk so low, going about shabbily dressed, etc., which in their eyes was, as it were, an advertisement of my own incompetence and insignificance. But all the same I had never expected so great a contempt for me. Simonov could not even disguise his surprise at my visit. He always used to be surprised at my visits, at least that was the impression I got. All this rather upset me. I sat down, feeling somewhat put out, and began listening to their conversation.
They were discussing very earnestly, and even with some warmth, the question of a farewell dinner which they wanted to give next day to a friend of theirs, an army officer by the name of Zverkov, who was due to leave for some remote place in the provinces. Zverkov too had been at school with me all the time, but I grew to hate him particularly in the upper forms. In the lower forms he had been just a good-looking, high-spirited boy, who was a favourite with everybody. I had hated him, however, even in the lower forms just because he was so good-looking and high-spirited a boy. He was never good at lessons, and as time went on he got worse and worse. But he got his school certificate all right because he had powerful connections. During his last year at school he came into an inheritance, an estate with two hundred peasants, and as almost all of us were poor, he even began showing off to us. He was superlatively vulgar, but a good fellow in spite of it, even when he gave himself airs. And in spite of the superficial, fantastic, and rather silly ideas of honour and fair p
lay we had at school, all but a few of us grovelled before Zverkov, and the more he showed off, the more anxious were they to get into his good books. And they did it not because of any selfish motives, but simply because he had been favoured with certain gifts by nature. Besides, Zverkov was for some reason looked upon by us as an authority on smartness and good manners. The last point in particular used to infuriate me. I hated the brusque, self-assured tone of his voice, the way he enjoyed his own jokes, which, as a matter of fact, were awfully silly, though he always was rather daring in his expressions; I hated his handsome but rather vapid face (for which, by the way, I would have gladly exchanged my clever one) and his free and easy military manners which were in vogue in the forties. I hated the way in which he used to talk of his future conquests (he did not have the courage to start an affair with a woman before getting his officer’s epaulettes, and was looking forward to them with impatience), and of the duels he would be fighting almost every minute. I remember how I, who had always been so reserved and taciturn, had a furious argument with Zverkov when he was discussing his future love affairs with his cronies during playtime and, becoming as playful as a puppy in the sun, suddenly declared that on his estate he would not leave a single peasant girl who was a virgin without his attentions, that that was his droit de seigneur, and that if any of his peasants dared to protest he would have them flogged and double the tax on them, too, the bearded rascals. Our oafs applauded him, but I got my teeth into him not because I was sorry for the virgins or their fathers, but just because they were applauding such an insect. I got the better of him then, but though a great fool, Zverkov was an impudent and jolly fellow, so he laughed the whole affair off, and did it so well that I didn’t really get the better of him in the end: the laugh was against me. He got the better of me several times afterwards, but without malice and as though it were all a great lark, with a casual sort of laugh. I would not reply to him, keeping resentfully and contemptuously silent. When we left school, Zverkov seemed anxious to be friends with me, and feeling flattered, I did not object; but we soon, and quite naturally, drifted apart. Afterwards I heard of his barrackroom successes as a lieutenant and of the gay life he was leading. Then other rumors reached me of his progress in the army. Already he began cutting me dead in the street, and I suspected he was afraid of compromising himself by greeting so insignificant a person as me. I also saw him at the theatre once, in the circle, already wearing shoulder-straps. He was bowing and scraping to the daughters of some ancient general. In three years he had lost his youthful looks, though he still was quite handsome and smart. He was beginning to put on weight and looked somewhat bloated. It was pretty clear that by the time he was thirty he would go completely fat and flabby. It was to this Zverkov, who was now leaving the capital, that our friends were going to give a dinner. They had been his boon companions, though I felt sure that in their hearts they never thought themselves his equal.
Of Simonov’s two friends one was Ferfichkin, a Russian of German origin, a little fellow with the face of a monkey and one of my worst enemies from our earliest days at school. He was an utterly contemptible, impudent, conceited fellow who liked to parade his claims to a most meticulous sense of honour, but who really was a rotten little coward at heart. He belonged to those of Zverkov’s admirers who fawned on him for selfish reasons and who, in fact, often borrowed money from him. Simonov’s other visitor, Trudolyubov, was not in any way remarkable. He was an army officer, tall, with rather a cold countenance, fairly honest, but a great admirer of every kind of success and only capable of discussing promotions. He seemed to be a distant relative of Zverkov’s, and that, foolish as it may sound, invested him with a certain prestige among us. He always regarded me as a man of no importance, but if not polite, his treatment of me was tolerant.
“Well,” said Trudolyubov, “I suppose if we contribute seven roubles each we’ll have twenty-one roubles, and for that we ought to be able to get a damn good dinner. Zverkov, of course, won’t pay.”
“Naturally,” Simonov agreed, “if we’re inviting him.”
“Surely you don’t suppose,” Ferfichkin interjected superciliously and with some warmth, like an impudent footman who was boasting about the decorations of his master the general, “surely you don’t suppose Zverkov will let us pay for him, do you? He might let us pay for the dinner out of a feeling of delicacy, but I bet you anything he’ll contribute half a dozen bottles of champagne.”
“Half a dozen for the four of us is a bit too much, isn’t it?” remarked Trudolyubov, paying attention only to the half-dozen.
“So the three of us then, with Zverkov making four, twenty-one roubles, at the Hôtel de Paris at five o’clock tomorrow,” Simonov, who had been chosen as the organiser of the dinner, concluded finally.
“How do you mean twenty-one?” I said in some agitation, pretending to be rather offended. “If you count me, you’ll have twenty-eight roubles, and not twenty-one.”
I felt that to offer myself suddenly and so unexpectedly as one of the contributors to the dinner was rather a handsome gesture on my part and that they would immediately accept my offer with enthusiasm and look at me with respect.
“You don’t want to contribute, too, do you?” Simonov observed without concealing his displeasure and trying not to look at me.
He could read me like a book.
I felt furious that he should be able to read me like a book.
“But why shouldn’t I? I’m an old school friend of his, am I not? I must say I can’t help resenting being passed over like that!” I spluttered again.
“And where do you suppose were we to find you?” Ferfichkin broke in, rudely.
“You were never on good terms with Zverkov, you know,” Trudolyubov added, frowning.
But I had got hold of the idea and I was not to give it up so easily.
“I don’t think anyone has a right to express an opinion about that,” I replied with a tremor in my voice, as though goodness knows what had happened. “It is just because I was not on very good terms with him before that I might like to meet him now.”
“Well,” Trudolyubov grinned, “who can make you out—all those fine ideals—”
“Very well,” Simonov made up his mind, “we’ll put your name down. Tomorrow at five o’clock at the Hôtel de Paris. Don’t forget.”
“But the money!” Ferfichkin began in an undertone, addressing Simonov and nodding in my direction, but he stopped short, for even Simonov felt embarrassed.
“All right,” Trudolyubov said, getting up, “let him come, if he really wants to so much.”
“But, damn it all, it’s only a dinner for a few intimate friends,” Ferfichkin remarked crossly as he, too, picked up his hat. “It’s not an official gathering. How do you know we want you at all?”
They went away. As he went out, Ferfichkin did not even think it necessary to say goodbye to me. Trudolyubov just nodded, without looking at me. Simonov, with whom I now remained alone, seemed perplexed and puzzled, and he gave me a strange look. He did not sit down, nor did he ask me to take a seat.
“Mmmm—yes—tomorrow then. Will you let me have the money now? I mean, I’d like to know—” he murmured, looking embarrassed.
I flushed and, as I did so, I remembered that I had owed Simonov fifteen roubles for years, which, incidentally I never forgot, though I never returned the money.
“But look here, Simonov, you must admit that I couldn’t possibly have known when I came here that—I mean, I am of course very sorry I forgot—”
“All right, all right! It makes no difference. You can pay me tomorrow at the dinner. I just want to know, that’s all. Please, don’t—”
He stopped short and began pacing the room noisily, looking more vexed than ever. As he paced the room, he raised himself on his heels and stamped even more noisily.
“I’m not keeping you, am I?” I asked after a silence of two minutes.
“Oh, no, not at all!” He gave a sudden start. “I mean, as a
matter of fact, you are. You see I have an appointment with someone,—er—not far from here,” he added in an apologetic sort of voice, a little ashamed.
“Good Lord, why didn’t you tell me?” I cried, seizing my cap with rather a nonchalant air, though goodness only knows where I got it from.
The Best Short Stories of Fyodor Dostoevsky (Modern Library Classics) Page 19
